Thomas Phelps

Poems In The Drawer - Poem by Thomas Phelps

She did not remember him really, she had been just a child.Perhaps he had written to pass the time? She did not know he was driven to create.This literary Beethoven, this unseen Rembrandtwho often rose with sleep-filled eyeslong before the winged ones stirredto put on record another 'masterpiece'fighting to get out of his headand onto the scrap of paper, only to be covered by similar scrapsin the dressing table drawer.Never to be read and enjoyedor even criticized and ridiculed.Now, with the creator gone, each 'masterpiece' would take its place, perhaps its rightful place, amongst theold washing machines and 78's.She couldn't recall the face or the voiceof that distant one whose blood she shared, but she felt a deep sadnessas she black-bagged his life's work.What else could she dowith the poems in the drawer?